


i will sing your name till you're sick of me

by sylveondreams



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Forgiveness, M/M, crowley prays, post-apocalypsen't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 12:01:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19700947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylveondreams/pseuds/sylveondreams
Summary: After the End Of The World, Crowley begins to pray. One evening, his prayer is answered.





	i will sing your name till you're sick of me

**Author's Note:**

> Nota bene: I don't believe in God. How does one pray? What am I doing?
> 
> Title from [It's Never Over (Hey Orpheus)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aY4h4AeUR28) by Arcade Fire.

Crowley had first come up with the idea on his knees in the dirt in the garden, pulling weeds from the mint patch. He sat back on his heels, wiped his forehead with a dirty glove, and tossed the weeds in his weed pile. His yellow eyes squinted up at the sun, sunglasses abandoned in his breast pocket for now.

Aziraphale's footsteps sounded on the paving stones of the path behind him, and the angel bent down to hand Crowley a sweating glass of ice water. Crowley pulled off his gloves and cast them on the ground to take the glass with his bare hands.

"How is the mint?" Aziraphale asked, settling on the lawn chair next to Crowley and looking down at him over his fruity cocktail.

"Did you weed _at all_ while I was gone?"

Aziraphale frowned. "Yes, of course. You told me to."

"I think you _encouraged_ them, angel." Crowley shot a glare at the mint patch, and several dozen weeds wilted.

The idea Crowley had had only stuck in his mind, so several days later, when Aziraphale went on a routine day trip to London to check on his bookshop, Crowley found himself sitting on his heels on the carpet in the library, looking out the east window at the morning sun. He hadn't done this in over six thousand years, and honestly he wasn't sure if he'd done it like _this_ at all, ever. He closed his eyes and pressed his palms together.

It became a habit. Whenever Crowley was at home and Aziraphale wasn't, the angel out at the shops or in London or, rarely, on the Continent without Crowley, Crowley would sit in the wing of their house that was dedicated to Aziraphale's library, face the sun, wherever it was in the sky, and pray.

He imagined it was nothing like what humans did. For starters, he assumed that they often prayed for miracles, or for protection for a loved one from illness or harm. But Crowley didn't have to worry about Aziraphale. The angel wasn't exactly going into any dangerous situation at the shops, and it wasn't like he could get sick. And as for miracles, well, the two of them had that covered. There was no need for that.

He imagined it was nothing like how Aziraphale used to pray, either. Most of that had been trying to contact his superiors, usually without much success, and it was always to ask them a question about his work. Aziraphale didn't pray religiously, and, as far as Crowley knew, never had.

Instead, Crowley's prayers were more like a bothersome person at a seance trying to contact a dead loved one to tell them about every little mundane thing that had happened in the last week. If God were listening, She'd probably be very annoyed at his constant plant updates. 

"I've noticed you leaving half-empty glasses on the floor in the library during times when I'm gone, my dear." Aziraphale speared another piece of juicy sausage on his fork. "Do you want me to leave a pillow under the window for you?"

Crowley blessed inwardly. He should have thought about using a pillow for his knees. That could stop them from hurting. "I hadn't thought about it. That would make... sunning myself... more comfortable." He took a drink of wine. "Thanks, angel."

"Is it particularly good in there?" Aziraphale asked through a mouthful of sausage.

"The sun? If the curtains aren't closed." Crowley leaned back on the rear legs of his chair. "I've told you before, you can miracle the books so they don't fade."

Aziraphale sighed. "I do, my dear, you know that, but-" He shook his head. Crowley suspected that the _but_ had never intended to lead to anything. Closed curtains were just habit for the angel. "I wish you'd tell me what you do to make these taste as wonderful as they do."

"Then you wouldn't need me anymore, angel."

"I'll always need you, love."

Crowley's heart leapt, as it always did when Aziraphale said sappy things like that, and a smile crept onto his face without his bidding.

Aziraphale put his fork down and looked reproachfully at the demon. "Don't look at me like that, Crowley. You'll distract me from my sausage."

The sun was beginning to set, its evening light puddling under the west window in the library. Crowley sat on his pillow in the sunlight, his eyes closed, soaking warmth in through his skin. His shoulders were hunched over his clasped hands, and his lips formed quiet words, interrupted by the occasional accidental hiss.

All of a sudden, the room flooded with light, and Crowley looked up, shielding his eyes with an arm.

 _Crowley._ It wasn't a voice, or, at least, not by any usual standard of what a voice is. It reverberated from every string of every quark of every particle in the room, the sound formed from everything and yet producing no noise.

Crowley quailed, his dark wings forcing their way from his back to protect his eyes from the blinding light.

_Don't be afraid, Crowley. Look into the light. I won't let it blind you._

Slowly, black feathers drifted away from his face, and his arm fell. Crowley stared, awestruck, into the radiance before him.

"Are you-" Crowley coughed to clear his throat. His voice wavered. "Are you God?"

_You already know the answer._

"And you'd speak to _me_?"

_I created you, did I not?_

"But humans- they speak to you every day, don't they?"

_It has been six thousand years since I've heard from any of the Fallen._

"Your voice... You sound like Aziraphale, Lord." It only struck Crowley that this might be blasphemous (or something) after the words left his mouth.

Fortunately, the Almighty sounded amused, or at least as amused as a voice that wasn't a voice at all could sound. _And he would tell you I sound like you, Crowley. What you hear is love. Listen._

Crowley listened.

An hour later, Aziraphale returned home. He hung his jacket on the coat rack and moved, humming, into the kitchen. The lights were off.

"Crowley?" he called, knocking pans and utensils around on his quest to start cooking something.

"Angel!" came a shout from the direction of the library, tinged with some kind of emotion. Aziraphale set a pan on the stove for later and followed Crowley's voice.

In the lamplight, the pillow near the window was dim. Crowley, sitting cross-legged and facing the window, still stared up at a point just above the window and just outside of reality.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the room filled with a soft yellow light.

Crowley looked around at the angel, his cheeks shining with tears.

"Oh, my dear, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Crowley said, smiling through his tears and spreading his arms out to indicate everything that was not a problem. "Aziraphale, nothing _at all_ is wrong." He stood on unsteady feet and went to hug the angel tightly like he hadn't seen him in years.

Aziraphale put his arms around Crowley, gently rubbing his back. "Can you tell me about it over dinner?"

Crowley chuckled and buried his face in Aziraphale's neck. "I love you."

"I love you, too, my dear."

Crowley watched Aziraphale read in the dim light of his bedside lamp, his glasses perched on his nose and his gaze fixed intently on his novel. The lamplight seemed to make him glow, but maybe that was just Crowley's imagination.

Finally, Crowley spoke. "Aziraphale."

The angel started, closing his book on his finger and looking at Crowley over the top of his glasses. "I thought you were asleep, love."

"I was. I think I should probably tell you something."

Aziraphale set a bookmark in his book, put it and his glasses aside, and slid down into the sheets so their eyes were level. "Oh?"

Crowley's eyes drifted down to the silver leaf that was scattered across Aziraphale's chest, and he raised a hand to stroke a patch. "I may have- Earlier today, when you came into the library, well-"

"Hmm?" prompted Aziraphale gently.

Quietly: "I talked to God?"

Aziraphale's eyes widened, and he turned over to stare at the ceiling. "You talked to the Almighty?"

Next to him, Crowley nodded.

They lay in silence for a few minutes.

Finally, "A demon?"

"That's what I said." Crowley moved closer, laying an arm and a leg over Aziraphale and burying his face in the angel's shoulder. Aziraphale's hand moved to absently play with Crowley's hair.

"Not through the Metatron?"

Crowley laughed quietly. "I've been praying for months. They'd probably tell me to piss off, if anything."

"For months?"

"For months, angel."

"Hmm." Aziraphale was quiet for a long moment. "What did- What did She tell you?"

"She made me feel Her love. Aziraphale... God loves me."

Aziraphale let out a shaky breath. "Crowley, you're a demon."

"You love me."

"That's different. I'm not in charge. My love doesn't _mean_ anything, in the grand scheme of things."

Crowley smiled, and, with great satisfaction, said, "You're wrong. Your love means everything, angel."

"Not to the world."

"It means I'm capable of deserving redemption."

"Deserving..." Aziraphale put his far hand over his eyes. "Crowley."

"Aziraphale, She's always loved all of us. Every demon. Even Beelzebub, the bastard. But She can't forgive them."

"Did you-"

"Angel."

"Did God forgive you?"

Crowley tightened his hold on Aziraphale and pressed a wispy kiss to his shoulder.

"Crowley?"

"Yes."

Aziraphale exhaled deeply. "I-" He shook his head.

"This is your fault, angel. I never wanted to be forgiven." Crowley slithered on top of the angel so he could kiss his cheek. "I don't know what I'm going to do with this."

"Crowley-" Brown eyes stared up into yellow. "For _centuries_ , I- And now I don't know what to do. What's going to happen, my love?"

"Nothing. No one will ever believe it. Everything will be the same. We'll just know." Crowley kissed Aziraphale's jaw. "And She told me to tell you that even if you haven't spoken to Her in four thousand years, She still loves you. And She forgives you, for what it's worth."

"For being a bad angel?"

"You're the best of all of them." Crowley wiped away the tears pooling at the corner of Aziraphale's eye. "Disobedient, maybe. But I don't think that matters. You love."

The angel put his arms around the demon, holding him closely and so tightly Crowley thought he might never let go. And that wouldn't be a bad thing. "I love _you_."

"I love you, too. Angel, we can't let this change anything."

"Of course not, my dear."

"Except-" Crowley grinned. "We can put up an awful wall sign that says 'God bless this house.'"

Aziraphale groaned. "Not one of the wood ones."

"One of the wood ones. I invented them, you know."

"I don't love you anymore," Aziraphale said, and kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr at [sylveondreams](https://sylveondreams.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
